Northstar Vale & prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns (mtr.)

Hours;
tundrian’s tonttu had slept for hours, and hours more; for a day-and-half  after the initiation  (or no?)  of the bloodlet-eyed gnome. Her rook had roused her, then, and was it not her who must ruffle his feathers? Rather than tend to her as he ought, he would
dismiss her!
to further his interests with their then-gawkish audience. Indignation! Andraste had flushed with the balefire of it; had looked upon the warlord preying, promising that he had made his choice; that she would pillage him and plead nevermore. The culmination of this insatiable ravening began in the early eve with the fairylight glimmering upon her shivering spring ribs; faded fury that had befallen o’er shoulders arched; soft sighs, shorn cheek to stone. Breast found shale; heartbeats soon tucked themselves into heavied pants; rawboned hips tugged taut and made to tender; several minutes, fathomless and several minutes more;
and woke to her belly strewn along the limestone of her Rest that pearlmade claws clutched at; breath bellowing from strained chords to warm tearful lashes. Quivering, quivering; melted porcelain figure and petal-soft thighs.

“How many times did I cry for you?”
Tones raw, nigh ravished; could not yet look upon him as @Melkor most certainly had let himself glut upon the vision that had been her.

Andraste had fallen victim to her own vow and left to ache around nothing.

andrase slept for hours — half a day, maybe. he moves to stretch his legs and because he has never been an idle beast. he sleeps for a bit himself, though, unintentionally falling into the lull of slumber and awakening at the sound of his name. at first, it rouses him sleepily at her side and he peeks at her to realize she is talking in her sleep. thinking nothing more of it in the moment he rests his chin against his paws and lets his eyes drift closed.

sleep does not come to steal him away though; for soon the fey queen is quaking and quivering at his side, breaths drawing laborously and his name falling from betwixt her lips over and over again.

melkor, melkor, melkor

a sensual chorus that has a bemused ( if not a bit smug ) smile tugging at the edges of his lips as he watches her. to be causing such reactions, such a fuss in the fantasies of her dreams ...it stokes his ego. she awakens soon; his ears cup forth to hear her question. ❝at least three since i woke up. i don't know how many more before that.❞ he responds candidly, tempering his amusement. 

❝did you have a good dream?❞ he asks pleasantly, thinking that if his phantom self of her dreams could do that to her that it was a damn good dream. still, melkor can't seem to help but tease her about it all the same.

“Yes,”
the immediacy of her answer would perhaps have been mortifying; but she is lain before the warlord that mulls over the feast that she has become; like the girlish dream of wife that she has for-ever forsaken; looks at her like a bride that has consummated herself. A helpless preything mewl shivers from her worn throat as the dulcet, muscular tones of his tongue take hold of her again. Wordless, a mute whimper  —  the shroud of him had been mouthing at her throat and between her thighs. Thighs that now trembled; thighs that she forbids herself from looking upon if only for the captivation of winter-and-rime eyes; blinking tears of euphoria from her own.

What would he have of her?

Andraste is helpless, as always, to his plaguing;
hopeless before his pride. Like a white rabbit in a snare; a dove in a cage; no matter the gilt and gleam of white-gold and lace of shadow. She yearns, headily, womanly and most furiously for that brush against her cheek of his lips and teeth and tongue and the fée kneads stone with claw; pitches her hips in a pathetic sort of way.  “You like this?”  wisping, wanting; scent, cloying. Him, cloying.  “Watching me writhe for you?”

She wants it all from him; she wants for things he holds in ice-mailed fists like weapons and gifts and offerings and her neck. He only presides over her ragged figure and still elicts a deep shiver to sleuth down her stricken spine;
supposes she ought to let him stay there and see her this way.

yes.

despite having roused herself into the world of the waking, andraste still appears to be feeling the effects of her good dream. the pitch of her hips, the scent of her arousal. it was a cruel sort of curiosity that makes melkor wondering if his phantom-self could bring her to completion ( and doubts it ). ❝yes,❞ he rasps, salmon pink tongue darting out to draw against his own jowls. what was the point in lying? ❝i'd much rather you writhe beneath me rather than for a dreamed version of me.❞ comes melkor's admittance after a small pause with a shift of his weight upon their shared stonebed.

A somnolent fevergleam within argent eyes;
a mumbled mimicry of that insidious name through lips bitten to disbelief, as if the very sight of him, leonine and lording in that he wants her beneath him is too good a truth; much too good, and the fée is faint, faraway; answering, answering only by gathering hinds beneath weak, wilting knees to quirk gaunt, glutting hips a smidgen more.  “You should have taken me ze way my dream did,”  trilling; trembling; his teeth in her jaw; his belly on her back.  “Claimed me ze way you first had. Ruined me beneath ze stars.”  He'd been the bane of her winter, then  –  so she had dreamt dark and delicate of his voyage to the heavens and when left so waning, so desolate; and though Andraste is loathe to press herself back to stone she does, if only reach for him with words fluting, wistful, wanton:  “You never did miss what it felt like to be inside me, did you?”  Means to taunt him, herself;
but it leaves her in a shivery warble; eyes filmy with hushed fervor.

As to his own disbeliefs—
the subtle smear that'd sodden her inner thigh would like to to put his doubts to rest ... and tonttu would like to know if he could taste her from here. But! lest she forget:  “Do you not ache for me, melitse?”
Brow writ with gauzy worry: had she incensed him to irritation, that so-early morn? Had she said some-thing that she could not ever remember?  (Which, truthfully, was most of all that she had spoken, then.)

Would he let her atone for what-ever terrors she had wrought?

❝not on the borders during an initiation of a stranger into courtfall's ranks.❞ melkor tells her, insistent on this. he takes his duty as sentinel, as warrior very seriously. ❝you weren't even asking any questions, things that should've been asked of a stranger showing up at our doorstep.❞ he doesn't hold back his disapproval regardless of how it might earn him her ire. never mind her own disapproval at his honesty, he realizes that a healthy relationship couldn't be all rainbows and sunshine all the time.

❝i'm not sure how me dismissing your urges for me during such a time equate to me not missing being within you,❞ melkor points out slowly. ❝but yes i did. it took restraint to not give into you ...but i won't apologize for being the sentinel of the borders as i am mean to be as valitúrë, as a master warrior.❞

❝you know i do.❞ he rumbles in response to her next question, feeling the low burning fire in his abdomen creeping ever closer to his loins now more than ever. ❝you told her i was your mate,❞ melkor tells her then, suddenly, chewing on it and all it means and how he feels about it. even still, he doesn't mind it. ❝is that what we are? what you desire us to be? husband and wife?❞ he asks her, fixing her scarred visage in his glacial gaze; studying her reaction to his words.

It is not ire that ignites the skin beneath feathered hide; that petrifies her where she lie before her warrior and she wilts; she wilts and it does not occur to her that she could rise, could brandish her fangs and her ruff and hold herself o’er him, above him. It does not occur to that she has such a right, that as Undómiel she has every right to quell him, no matter the further rightness of his words and yet and yet and yet she shivers with
shame—
blistering, unforgiving, molten shame that touches tears anew and draws her knees to her belly as she listens to the lull between his first response  –  enough for the second to scathe skin raw with what has embedded itself as rueful repulsion, not ever at him; not at his scolding sensibilities. It was for her own taking; and though there seems to be some bracing for disfavor in his telling, that which reigns now o’er Andraste is disgust for no other soul within vicinity but herself.

Mate; his enquiry a near mockery to affrighted ears;
“I want your name,”  she bleats, a bit brokenly, before she can blush with the ludicracy of her longing and loathing of herself; how, only heartbeats from here, she had promptly ridden the mere thought of him ‘til the shadow of him had ravished her to ruin. Hauntcraft held Melkor not; and it was with hushed, hiccoughing hot tears loosing from dark cusp of lashes like little stars that the fairylight flickered before him. Shorn lips weakly parting, perhaps, with the hungering whet of an expected apology  –  or, so she has come to believe.

Her tundrian, by some grace, by some design, was not cut entire from the same linen that the males of her then-life had been;
and though he meant no ridicule of her person  (reasonability, rather commendable, at that)  her Mark was a brand on her back and she would swear by the first of their brood that he felt now now now the beat of her heart through balking breast. Sniffling all pathetic;
the scent of her tinged with the unbidden saltglint streak’d along desecrated features. She is arousal and anguish but it was not at all like the plinth; would not ever be the plinth; yet she is nevertheless sickening, surely, for wanting this warlord before and wanting to be wife, wanting  –  wanting that which she had for-ever forsaken herself the wish of.

Her stare upon his shadow;
meet his eye she cannot. The morn he speaks of:  “I did not return to you because I felt I—”  hanging rubied crown, shivering, shivering so forever that she feared that behemoth beneath the earth would rouse again. But finally, finally:
“I felt I had no worth to.”

i want your name.

❝then it is yours.❞ he says, though wonders after offering it to her with bloodied heart attached to the castiron key if name was the same thing he sought. for the sake of the fact that he has apparently already upset her ( at least this is how he sees things ) he does not prod.

he does not prod and he does not ridicule for her following words: of how she fears she is unworthy. it might amuse him in slight ...the idea of anyone feeling they are unworthy of him; he. wicked. cold. the destroyer of his family and teaghlaigh. again and again. not even father to his own blood daughter. the gangster's that been running from the law for so long that he fears he knows nothing else.

yet, here he is ready to plant roots, to hold his ground. to say this is mine and i will die for it to any who try to take it from him. ❝you've never not been worthy of me,❞ he tells her assuredly. ❝and as i've said prior...i fear it is me that is not worthy of you.❞ but she's been wronged time and again that he does not blame her for her insecurities; instead he simply seeks to listen and to bandage them as best he can in the hopes that they will heal.

It cannot be!

A bride before her big day;
dressed all in white with a blush that sets off the colors of her dressing room  —  but is not the pinking from the knowing that she will wake up and love her betrothed more than the dawn before; it's a drunken blush, a despondent blush; glossy eyes looking up at him through lashes and over the rim of one too many bourbons. Here she is again: wanting something stupid. Wanting a wedding all under-the-hat, all midsommar and under-willows and thrumming fireflies; a stupid, hopelessly romantic little wedding with some priest even though this bride is godless; wants it all and runs from it;
runs from it through the deep dark all fevered and frightened because this had been a fantasy for-ever. And now, now that the wool of her wish had been tugged from lidded eyes, the truth that she was wanted —

"When I am with you, I feel as if I am walking through a dream. I can no more fathom that you’re real, and here, and that you ...”  It was like saying that fairies don’t exist; it was like saying that such dreams do not come true and she is faltering, featherlight. Astynome:  “I do not like what she saw. We should have been alone,”  stuck-breath and stilted and stupid, stupid starlit, unthinking!  “for ze moment I fell in love with you.”  She's a far, faraway land, again; flushing, fraying;
she's the rickety bridge o'er the chasm  –  the too-trampled one that tethers all you've ever known to all that is uncharted. But perhaps she could be; be an Ansbjørn for an hour
or two, or three. Four. Five.

“Please show me, melitse,”  honey-hesitant,
“show me what it means to be only yours.”

melkor does not expect her confession — for whoever truly does? — and yet he listens, patiently all the same. a dream. ❝i'm very real, i assure you.❞ very real and very much capable of making plenty of fool's mistakes. ❝i can't promise that it's always going to be starry-eyed looks and lilac colored love. i can't promise that kisses will always taste like gooseberries. i'm no dream; no knight. but i can and i do promise to never give up on us.❞ nothing in life is easy; a life lesson well learnt by the tundrian from his earliest memories.

life is hard and thus he expects love to be as well; but he found a way to survive and thinks that finding a path to endure with another would come just as natural.

❝only for a moment?❞ melkor cannot help but tease her, rasping smoky tones thick with faux disappointment. ❝i am sure she will chalk it up to the season.❞ comes his uttered half-lie.... because he can't say for sure what anyone will think of such public displays of affection. regardless; it is done.

❝don't i already?❞ melkor asks with murmured curiosity and perhaps a touch of confusion.

Was he?

That he spoke of lilac love and starry eyes and gooseberry kisses and refuted both knighthood and that he was not a reverie  –  that she could not help but gaze near neanderthal upon the sculpted, however marred guise, the frore eyes  —  that she could not help but feel so exquisitely tiny before him, china doll and mothlike as he teased her; her face made sweet and anxious and flushed with the unaccustomed rightness of it all; how he batted not an eyelash at her profession, really;
“Can you blame me? Look at you,”  she wisps afterthought without prompting; answering a question that had not been uttered. Lashes lidding so that she might reach for him and press her ruined brow to his heavy jawline. Let all that she felt for him be returned unto her from his own heart  –  whether sugared sweet-nothings or quarrels arised out of concern and care.  Let this love be real. Let him be real,  silly tears limning for a moment.  Let me love without ze fear of it never having been. Please.  A tremor curved down her backbone.  Please.

And that he was hers;
it was too much.

Again shying, again petal-soft;
and voyaged now with the suddenness of modesty birthed from this, and that, and how he has lain before her, seen her claw for him and calm by him, claiming to be more flesh than figment and she cannot, she  —  she lurches to her paws, flushed, flustered, hiccoughing some nonsense story as she means to  (impossibly)  high-step over the great breadth of his body; but!
her  (impossible)  escape is halted only by the whisper of his breath against her thigh, which quivers as it warms and chills the smear of her coaxed from the specter of him. Andraste is mute, staring with dreamy, dim-witted, demure-desiring eyes; fearing that were she to blink, she would not ever see him again. To touch, however; to feel his mouth on her and be spun into gossamer by his tongue; torn to tender, tender tatters by his teeth—  

“Please ... please, my love,”  suffocating on the endearment, defeated; held still before him, over his ribs,  “please show me.”

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can you blame me? look at you.

vanity had once ruled him; gripped him tight. the scars that mar his face, his throat have loosened it and fought against it. it has made him more aware of his own mortality and thus made him a bit more humble. ❝disorted reflections of ponds and lakes aren't the best mirrors.❞ he says playfully, scrambling for a lack of anything else to say. perhaps vanity hasn't entirely left him for he does not humbly counter her words but he does not capitalize upon them as he once would've either.

melkor holds still for her as he realizes that she means to leap over him ( wouldn't going around be easier, he ponders? ) and only partially succeeds. a heady moment flares to life like a fire fed oxygen, licking towards the heavens; licking through his body with a mighty rage intent on conquering. he shifts beneath her but even the cool kiss of their stonebed against his belly is not near enough to quell the feverish heat he feels coursing through him.

for a second, he thinks of telling her to move, to let him up so that he could give her what she begs of him to. love; the endearment doesn't go unheard but he chooses not to draw upon it just yet, saving it for later. instead, he shimmies beneath her and when he is close enough nuzzles his muzzle against the inside of her thigh, tongue drifting sensually across the fur there, tasting her.

She would not be able to stand in this manner; aching and anguishing for him to to daub his tongue as molasses up to the feverish climes of her and ending her before he even began;
so with a tender half-order of Wait, his fairylight requested he lie once more to stonebed as she sidled down along with him; thin, rasping breaths wreathing with the headiness of Cuivénen when eventually, finally, she comes to cradle her minikin self upon the impressive tundrian figure in all its war-forged glory;
shivering so surely for him as she tucks her ruined cheek into his ribcage, melds her stomach to the great chamber’d breadth of his breast; quivering thighs bestride his frostmade throat and hips poked up so with her soft pink unfurling just out of mouth’s reach. He’d have to wend his heavy arms around her gauntness and gather her close; get her all writhing and weak and wailing whimsy for him and the seelie’s hips give a trembly, unbidden little thrust at the breath of him and the phantom simper she feels. Praying that he would dine on her, devour her; sleepy, shameless, shying.

Andraste has already begun to claw at him, clutch at him; felt and untouched and moaning some low warble into cloudthick mane that crests into an ever-needy and gentle, crooning gasp:

Please.

And her beloved did just that.